Dying to Get Away
by I hart Booth
Summary: August NJC entry  You can take the man from war, but the war never leaves the man. Booth is trying to forget, but there are faces and songs that haunt him and he knows he never will. Oneshot


**August NJC based on the song 'The Backseat' by Zornik. ::sigh:: I feel bad for the things I do to my poor Boothy Boo. **

He could feel it in the air, this place was different. America's playground, Sin City, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Where one can disappear amongst the smoke and the sweat and the lights and people and forget their twisted pasts. That's what he came here to do, forget. He knew he would never be forgiven, but he could try to forget.

The dirty motel bed was left un-slept in and all the lights were off. The hot Vegas air blew inside on a thick, demanding breeze from the open window. It was never nighttime here, and he left the curtains open all night so the neon sun could warm his cold skin. He sat in one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs with the wine and lipstick stains on the seat facing the open window. In the dark he could see a dark spot on the floor where something had been spilled at one time and a crack in the wall behind the door where someone's fist had been, maybe even his.

He downed the last of the scotch in his glass and the ice clinked against the sides. His M16 leaned against the back of the chair, clean and up to regulations, just how the Captian liked them. Booth hoped to never have to use it again, but he found that he couldn't sleep without it, without having the security of it being there, just within reach. Not that he really slept at all. It was 3am and he stood, moving toward the window in jeans and his muscle tee, wishing to allow the wind to cleanse him of her scent.

He didn't even know her name and she wasn't that pretty. She wore a lot of makeup and her hair was dyed un-natural blonde, with an inch of dark roots. Her uniform was that of a black plastic snakeskin skirt and six inch heals. While her smile was sweet and her words exactly what he wanted to hear, her eyes held the shadows of too many things seen and done. Much like his own.

They met in the darkness behind the club and exchanged minimal conversation. Their encounter was more of a business transaction than anything, almost mechanical in it's execution. His kisses were cold and his hands rough as if she was the last woman he would ever see. She never closed her eyes and she hardly said a word. Their minds resided elsewhere while their bodies worked toward a common goal, hoping it came quickly so they could part ways and move on. She lit up a cigarette as she walked away and he remembered zipping up his pants as he closed the door behind her, her cheap perfume choking inside his throat.

Booth closed his eyes and he could see the Saints of his parent's old church. Saint John and Saint Jude, Saint Paul and Saint Mathew. They all looked down at him, something like sadness and disappointment in their eyes. The same faces that made him sit up straight and pay attention in church as a child, and brought him courage and solace while in the trenches of war, now haunted him and would never let him forget. And he could hear them. He tried to focus on the car engines and the horns, on the voices of winning and losing, fear and drunken bliss. But it was still there, the haunting song of the Saints, their hollow and trembling melody that woke him in a cold sweat, telling him they knew all his sins.

He opened his eyes and bright lights of the Strip beckoned his return. Just one more hand, one more girl. One more prayer and maybe he would be okay tonight. Maybe he would forget his friend's face as he bled to death in his arms. Maybe he would be free of the cries of that little boy as he watched his father's blood stain his skin. Maybe…

The glass shattered against the wall and littered the tattered blanket on the bed. Booth blinked.. He didn't remember doing it, in fact, he couldn't even remember getting out of his chair. But here he was, standing, his glass hurled against the wall and in pieces on the bed. He started to walk over to clean up, but as he bent down the light reflected off his dog tags and he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, the man looking back at him was a man he didn't know. A man whose eyes were bloodshot and cold. A man who didn't know how to smile, who was no longer overseas but couldn't get away from the war. He dropped his eyes back to the mess on the bed, and he found he didn't care. He wasn't going to sleep anyway.

His jaw began to ache and he consciously reminded himself to stop grinding his teeth and unclenched his fists. Then, after a moment, he pushed his gun under the bed beside the bottle of scotch.

Turning around, he snatched his green canvas jacket off the ground where he'd dropped it earlier and slipped the last of his poker chips into his pocket. He would go out and he would drink, smoke, love or fight. He'd do whatever it took to put an end to the memories and make the Saints stop singing.

**So, what did everyone think? Do I win? lol. **


End file.
